1966: The Black Canyon, the Hard Way
In the fall of 1966, I was climbing intensively with Pat Ament, and that mentorship culminated with an epic adventure in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. In those days this was a remote, wild, and seldom-visited place. Kor had discovered the 1700-foot walls and done some high-level climbs there, but few other climbers dared to go there. One of the biggest walls, the Chasm View Wall, had a nose-like feature that had never been climbed and Pat decided we should attempt its first ascent, to establish Colorado’s version of the Nose of El Cap.
In mid-October, the schools had a four-day weekend, so we set out on Wednesday after school, planning to return Sunday evening so I could make it to school on Monday. Pat recruited a third person, Gordy Ryan, mainly because he had a car. That car was a Porsche Carrera and we somehow managed to fit three of us and all the gear for a big wall climb into that tiny car. We sped off into the night, hour after hour, and arrived very late at the North Rim of the Black Canyon.
Thursday. We woke up early, grabbed some quick food, packed up all our gear and schlepped it over to the wild descent gulley (now called the Cruise Gulley) that took us down into the bowels of the Canyon. We had to do several rappels and contend with massive stands of poison ivy and gnarly thorn bushes. Only a handful of people had been there before us - only Kor and his partners. Finally, around noon, we reached the base of the wall. We did a short easy pitch, then the low-angle wall turned blank. Pat led another 30 feet or so, moving very slowly, doing difficult aid climbing with hooks and rurps. Nightfall was approaching so Pat placed a bolt, brought us up to him, and there we spent an uncomfortable night in hammocks. We had climbed maybe 100 feet on our first day. At this rate we would be sixteen more days on the climb …
Friday. We woke up from a sleepless night, and it was clear to all of us that we had little chance of success. We had lost our umph to keep going, so we rappelled back to the ground and pow-wowed. Gordy was done with the Black Canyon and wanted to go home. But Pat was of the mind that we should still climb something since we had come all that way and had several days-worth of food and water. By some logic Pat and I decided it would be fine if Gordy went home (with the car) and we would stay and climb. Pat was confident that we would have no problem getting a freight train to Denver (even though the nearest freight yard was 60 miles away in Grand Junction). So, we bade goodbye to Gordy, and were now fully stranded at the bottom of the Black Canyon. We spent the night on a perfect sandbar on the Gunnison River and built a huge bonfire with the abundant driftwood. This was undoubtedly the high point of the trip, and we got our only decent night’s sleep.
Saturday. We had spotted a long continuous crack in a smooth wall on the other side of the Canyon, not far above us. Luckily, the river was low enough to cross. We humped our loads up to the base of the wall, then spent the day nailing four or five pitches up the beautiful crack system. It ended just where a horizontal crack feature intersected and allowed for a traverse left onto a giant sloping ledge. We settled in for the night, but I was beginning to wonder how I would make it home the next night in time for school. And we were running low on food and water.
Sunday. We spent the day on easier, broken climbing and could feel the lure of the rim - this was our fourth day down in the Black Canyon. Finally, as dusk approached, we stood at on flat ground on top of the climb. But then we discovered that this summit was an island, completely separated from the rim. Deflated, we bushwhacked down a gulley for hundreds of feet until reaching the main gulley that led to the rim. I was moving faster than Pat, and left him behind, desperate to get out of the Canyon. In pitch darkness I arrived at the rim and was met by a Ranger who had been watching us for days. Not only was it unusual for a party to be climbing in the Canyon, but he was not going to go home to Montrose where he lived until we made it out. We waited for Pat, and called for him, and the Ranger swept the dark depths with his flashlight. Finally, Pat appeared, thrashing his way up to us. He was miffed at me for leaving him behind, but I was in full survival mode. The Ranger gave us a ride into Montrose and dropped us off at the City Park where he thought we could spend the night. We threw out our sleeping bags, utterly exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. I was supposed to be home right now and was pretty stressed about what my parents were thinking.
The Painted Wall section of the Black Canyon captured recently by photographer Monika Chace in the light of the pre-dawn “blue hour”.
Me in 2011 standing by the railing at the top of the Chasm View Wall, with the Gunnison River 1,800 feet below. Photo by Justin Briggs
Monday. Just about the time my 1st period biology class was starting back at Boulder High, Pat and I were standing on the main drag of Montrose with our thumbs out, trying to get a ride to Grand Junction. Soon a State Patrolman stopped by and informed us that hitchhiking was illegal. End of Plan A. Did I mention that we had no money? We put our heads together and Pat decided that we should track down the nice Ranger we met the night before and see if we could borrow money for bus fare to Grand Junction. We managed to find the National Monument offices and found him there and Pat convinced him to give us money for bus fare. But the bus didn’t leave until late afternoon, so we killed time at our favorite park. We had enough spare change for Pat to make a call to his parents, who called my parents to explain what was going on. Finally, we boarded the bus to Grand Junction and were on our way. It was filled with Navajos who were singing and chanting which was somehow soothing. Then, well after dark, we arrived at the bus station in Grand Junction, which, it turned out, was not far from the freight yards.
Feeling the October chill, we approached a yardman and asked when the next eastbound train would be leaving. We (especially me) must have looked pretty pathetic because he did one of the most compassionate things, something we really needed at that moment. He took us to a lone caboose parked on a siding and said we could stay there and sleep for a few hours, and he would come get us when the train was about to leave. This man seemed like an angel to me. Maybe he was. Just to be in a warm place for the first time in five days was a relief and I fell soundly asleep on a cushion. Then he woke us and took us to the train, and even showed us the best car to get on, an empty car carrier. We settled in for another bivy as the train slowly began to move into the night. For the first time in days, I was feeling optimism that I might actually get home.
Tuesday. When you first get on a freight train and it starts moving it’s incredibly exhilarating and liberating. That lasts for about 30 minutes. Then the violent jolting, and the deafening banging and screeching, and diesel-filled air overwhelms you and you realize there’s nothing glamorous about this. We rolled on through the night stopping often to let other trains pass. At sunrise we emerged from the Moffat Tunnel and were now feeling close to home. In bright sunshine and deep blue skies we descended down through our beloved Eldorado Canyon, threading tunnel after tunnel; and finally we arrived at the Denver freight yards. Pat’s Mom picked us up and brought me home, only two full days late. I can’t imagine what my parents must have gone through, but very little was said. I think they were way beyond words, and simply thankful that their young son was back in one piece. As for me, I was equally thankful.
For the record: The Mirror Wall. V, 5.8, A2. First ascent in 1966 by Pat Ament and Roger Briggs.